Between the Raindrops
by grumkinsnark
Summary: Elia, Rhaegar, and Rhaenys enjoy a day in the Water Gardens, with neither worry nor politics to trouble them.


_Prompt: I wish you would write a fic where Elia just plays with Rhaenys and does nothing else. A peaceful fic where she just plays with her baby. Could be a typical day in Dragonstone or in the Water Gardens, perhaps Kingsguard or Rhaegar or Balerion joins them but no bad things, no worries. Elia is just happy._

 _For an anon on Tumblr._

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 **Between the Raindrops**

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Elia has to stifle a laugh when she sees Rhaegar walk out one morning, footsteps an uncharacteristic shuffle. They had arrived in the Water Gardens a week ago, and it had taken all of a day for the Dornish sun to wreak havoc on Rhaegar's pale skin. She'd given him every burn remedy in the books, but still, it seems, her homeland recognizes what—or rather, _who_ —is in Rhaegar's blood and holds no mercy.

For her part, she hasn't felt so at ease and content since…well, she can't quite remember. For all that she'd been on bedrest since Rhaenys's birth six months prior, being here has dwindled the discomfort to a mere ebb, hardly noticeable. She knows Doran's guards, and her own, are lurking just out of sight, but they're marvelous at giving her the illusion of privacy. There's nothing but the smell of blood oranges and the salt of the sea about her, the warm water curing her bruised body, nothing but heat and fresh air, nothing but _quiet_.

Quiet, and her burnt husband.

"You're trying to sabotage me, I know it," Rhaegar grouses, wincing a little as he takes a seat beneath the shade. "Whatever you gave me only made things worse."

She does laugh this time, flicking water in his direction. "You of all people should know Dorne doesn't like Targaryens. I did warn you."

"Our babe is half-Targaryen, and Dorne likes her just fine."

Elia looks down at her daughter on her lap, whose small hands trail through the water and who giggles in glee at the butterflies overhead. It's true, Rhaenys had taken to Dorne as surely as Elia herself, seeming to thrive in the hot weather, even more so with Uncle Oberyn's tickling and blood orange slices causing him to quickly supplant everyone else as her favorite person.

"It's a good thing, too," Elia says. "Your family could use some color."

Before her marriage, she had planned to be the perfect little wife, unobtrusive and demure, lest Aerys find a reason to dispense of her or, worse, lest Rhaegar take after his father in more ways than the kingship. But then he had seen her discomfort, had moved their household to Dragonstone instead of letting her suffer King's Landing, had welcomed her counsel. All of it, no matter how thorny or unconventional. While on his jaunts to Summerhall, he'd entrusted her with holding court, with overseeing the accounts and quotidian goings-on, had sent away the wet nurse when Elia had pronounced she would not use one, had even abided by her refusal to go into confinement. _Dornishwomen do not hide away for months simply because a child grows within them. We withstand until our time is upon us, and so shall I._ He'd merely smiled. _Far be it from me to impose my will upon yours._

He'd kept to his promise, too, though every now and then she'd seen his intent to urge her to be careful. She knows the true reason, that he feared anything and everything, given his mother's troublesome pregnancies and doomed children; every time, she would kindly remind him that the queen was three-and-ten when she had him to Elia's three-and-twenty, and that just because she falls ill doesn't mean she's an invalid.

Still, she'd appreciated it despite that, for it came from a place of real concern. Not just for the babe she carried, but for _her_. Before she'd gotten to know him, she'd figured him for the same as the rest of them—dismissive, condescending, begrudging of her sickness—but he'd been nothing of the sort. Though she loathes the stormy, frigid environment of Dragonstone and the grating crownlands accents, of Rhaegar she is fortunate. Reserved and melancholy, her husband is, but a good man all the same.

And, she thinks as he abandons the shade in order to sit down beside her in the pool and make faces for Rhaenys's amusement, a better father than she could have hoped for. Of course, her standards were exceedingly low, considering who _his_ father is, but nevertheless he'd surpassed them with great aplomb, and no artisan in the world could accurately capture Rhaenys's adoration when she gazes up at him.

She may hate by sun and spear how Rhaegar had presumed to name their daughter after such an ill-fated woman, she may hold that grudge until the end of her days, but she'll put up with anything so long as Rhaenys is happy and healthy. Two aspects, she vindictively loves reminding gossipy courtiers, that she has in excess.

They stay like that for ages, just the three of them, Rhaegar valiantly trying to ignore the fact that by being here his sunburn is only getting worse, when at long last they're disrupted. His arrival is nearly silent, but not silent enough, and his steps are so familiar Elia doesn't need to so much as glance over her shoulder to know whom they belong to.

"Pardon the interruption, Your Graces," says Arthur, endlessly polite even here, "but I'm told supper will be served before long."

Rhaegar takes a look at his oldest friend, and scowls. "By the Seven, you too? I thought you mountain houses were supposed to burn."

As plainly as it had for her and Rhaenys, so too had Dorne recognized its own in Arthur, his skin browning beneath the sun the way Rhaegar's most certainly hadn't. "It would not be the Young Dragon's first exaggeration, I'm afraid," Arthur replies mildly. "What kind of Dornishmen would we be if we roasted alive every time we stepped out of doors?"

"Mayhaps the _respectful_ sort." With a put-upon sigh, Rhaegar removes himself from the pool, a rather spectacular pout on Rhaenys's face at the action. "Ready the nursery, if you would. We shan't be long."

Arthur nods in obeisance and departs, pausing only to tap Rhaenys playfully on the nose. Elia takes Rhaegar's proffered hand, primly wringing the water from her skirts, and as they walk into the palace she closes her eyes. The familiar scents of her people mingle with Rhaegar's smoke and Rhaenys's sweetness, and she can scarcely think of anything more perfect.


End file.
